


fail like a mortal, flail like a god

by serpentinerose



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Emotionally Constipated Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Idiots in Love, It's just a lot of sexual tension idk how to tag this, M/M, Mutual Pining, Mythology References, POV Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Pining, Sexual Frustration, Slow Burn, being really stupid, but like
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-24
Updated: 2020-04-24
Packaged: 2021-03-02 01:14:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,699
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23826670
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/serpentinerose/pseuds/serpentinerose
Summary: Jaskier makes use of what he learned at Oxenfurt, and Geralt wonders why these Seven Liberal Arts never included fending for oneself in the wild.Or, Jaskier tells the myth of Sisyphus, and Geralt has thoughts.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia & Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 3
Kudos: 86





	fail like a mortal, flail like a god

**Author's Note:**

> Title from Andrew Bird's "Sisyphus."
> 
> In this household we love mythology and will use it gratuitously.

The journey today has been an uneventful one, a stretch of quiet woods between the border of Redania and Temeria. Much to his annoyance, Geralt still has not been able to shake off Jaskier, despite telling himself time and again that this particular adventure will be the last one that the bard gets to witness. He has been telling himself that for the better part of ten years. 

  


_ And yet, here we are _ , Geralt hears a smug Jaskier say.

  


The bard is more trouble than he is worth. Geralt can count on one hand, with fingers left over a plenty, the occasions that Jaskier has actually contributed to the slaying of a monster. But he would run out of both fingers and toes if he starts tracking how many times Jaskier has gotten in the way, how many times Geralt had to come to his aid and save him from certain death. On the occasions when their paths did split, Geralt hopes to himself that this goodbye will be their last, but Jaskier always makes his way back to him, and Geralt tells himself that the warmth that spreads through his chest when he sees Jaskier’s smiling face in a crowded tavern is but annoyance. 

  


He was not able to shake Jaskier off this time, either. “I’d like to see Temeria,” Jaskier announced enthusiastically when Geralt attempted to leave him in Rinbe. “I’ll be no trouble at all.” And as much as Geralt had verbally expressed that in fact, Jaskier was great trouble, is great trouble, he still finds himself here with the bard, sojourning yet another night in the great woods.

  


After their modest dinner, which Geralt had caught, cleaned, and cooked on a fire that he stoked, Geralt feels the long day wears on him. The scent of firewood burning fills the air, the woods quiet and serene. A rare night of peace.

  


Never one to have a silence undisturbed, Jaskier begins a conversation. “Have you heard of the myth of Sisyphus?” Jaskier asks.

  


“No,” Geralt grunts.

  


“It is an old story from an old land, quite far from the Continent, to the West. I read it once in a book when I was at Oxenfurt. Liberal education and all, you understand.”

  


“Hm,” Geralt hums disinterestedly. 

  


“They have different gods, in that land. Their gods are cruel, as all gods are cruel. And jealous, and wrathful, and… well, they are no Melitele, I can tell you. Anyway, there once was a king…”

  


Jaskier’s voice is soft, the fire warm, and the soft lull of the autumn forest at night coaxes at the strained muscles of Geralt’s shoulders. He wraps his arms around his knees, finding himself leaning closer to the crackling flames and splitting woods, closer to the source of Jaskier’s animated retelling of an ancient lore from an ancient land. If he does not try very hard to resist, he is sure to fall asleep. Behind him, Roach neighs quietly, stomping her hooves in muted steps as she, too, settles into the warmth of encroaching rest.

  


“... and I actually forgot what he did wrong to anger the gods, but in the end…” Jaskier goes on and on. Geralt listens with half an ear, enjoying, unwittingly, the cadence of Jaskier’s voice even as he barely registers the story being told. He is a good storyteller, Geralt thinks, albeit an incorrigible false historian, a weaver of tall tales, a romanticizer of unheroic deeds. “And I actually think he reminds me a bit of you, Geralt, every time the boulder rolls down, and the next day carrying it up again, and again.”

  


Geralt has clearly missed some important parts of the story. “How is this king like me?” he asks, stifling a yawn. Over the fire, he can see Jaskier lounging on a large fallen log, legs astride, dressed only in an old undershirt and soft trousers. The colorful trappings of performance are folded neatly next to him, and his lute rests reverently atop the pile. 

  


Jaskier, who has been gazing up to the night sky, turns to him. “It is not the fact that he is a king that matters, Geralt!” he cries. Jaskier seems to take a moment to reflect, hand to his beardless chin. “Well, you must both be very strong, for one,” he states matter-of-factly. “To be able to carry such a boulder up so many times.”

  


Geralt has no idea what he is talking about. “I don’t carry boulders,” he grunts. 

  


Jaskier rolls his eyes. “The boulder is a  _ metaphor _ , Geralt. It’s like… I’m talking about the heavy burden you both bear, the effort it takes to do something again and again even when it seems… truly futile.” His voice drops to a contemplative whisper. Geralt thinks it a rare occasion to see Jaskier’s eyes soften into thoughtfulness. He does not know if this silence suits Jaskier, who has always been inextricably linked, in his mind, with boisterous laughter and raucous songs. 

  


“It is not futile to kill monsters,” Geralt finally says after the moment of silence stretches between them until it grows taut. He enjoys silence. He begs for it, yearns for it, especially when Jaskier refuses to grant it to him. But something about the fire, and the warmth, and the way Jaskier stretches into that languid feline form force his mouth. “They terrorize humans. Kill them. It is why Witchers walk The Path.” 

  


“It is funny to hear you say that,” Jaskier says, “when you always rail against destiny.”   
  


Geralt exhales a quiet sigh. “The Path is not destiny. It is a choice. A purpose.”

  


Jaskier slowly sits up, twisting his arms behind his back and cracks a shoulder joint, and picks up a stick to poke ineffectually at the fire, which is slowly dying down. “But you did not choose to become a Witcher.”

  


Geralt hums. It is true that he did not.

  


Jaskier continues. “And yet, you walk this Path, knowing that your task will never end, for there shall always be monsters in whatever forms they take.”

  


“It is no different from how anyone else lives their life,” Geralt insists. “Everyday, futilely trying to escape death by working, by eating, drinking, fighting, and still finally succumb to it in the end.” 

  


“Perhaps you are right,” Jaskier concedes. “Still, most people do not go through life being reviled by the ignorant masses for trying to save them from the monsters out for their children.”

  


Geralt is silent. This, too, is true, but one of the first lessons he learned as a boy at Kaer Morhen is never to expect thanks for his work. Coins for blood, coins for severed heads and cut-off tails. Coins for food and shelter, and coins for whores. Transactions are simple, without the trappings of gratitude.

  


“And so you continue to bleed for the people who throw rocks at you when they see you enter a town, knowing that you would not harm them,” Jaskier continues softly. “And you do it again and again, village after village, kingdom after kingdom.”

  


Jaskier picks up his lute and strums a few slow, aching chords. “You are truly a friend of humanity, Geralt of Rivia.” Jaskier’s eyes reflect the flickering flames, the color of an ocean on fire. Geralt swallows hard, feeling heat pooling in the pit of his stomach fiercer than the waning warmth of the fire. Before he knows it, Jaskier is already next to him, the scent of male sweat and arousal filtering through his enhanced senses. Geralt leans forward, almost out of his mind with need.

  


“Just a friend?” he asks, and his voice is rough. 

  


Jaskier tilts his head, his brown hair curling softly against the nape of his head and falling distractingly in front of his eyes, and Geralt thinks that he might be, quite literally, fucked.

  


“That is up to you, Geralt of Rivia,” Jaskier replies in a low whisper, seeming almost shy, which is a thought so ridiculous that Geralt refuses to entertain it. Jaskier has never been shy, not since that very first day in the rundown backwater cavern of Posada. The way Jaskier’s teeth flash between his lips when he says “Rivia” sends all kinds of ridiculous thoughts running through Geralt’s head. He feels almost inebriated, his whole body thrums with an undercurrent of something that pulls deep at the knots within his throat that he is sure can only be unraveled if he leans forward, toward Jaskier, and beseech the bard’s assistance. Jaskier’s eyes are half-lidded and made entirely of fire, his lips slightly parted so that Geralt can glimpse at the tip of a tongue, moist and pink between Jaskier’s white teeth. The air is charged and humming with an energy so palpable that Geralt thinks will burst into lightning if he dares as much as move an inch, and at the same time, it is as if Jaskier is crafted entirely of lodestone, and Geralt is but a sword of mere iron, prone to rust, and unable to escape the compulsion to be drawn irresistibly toward this man.

  


A log cracks, spluttering between them.

  


_ Fuck _ .

  


The moment, as quickly as it has arrived, is gone. “It’s late,” Geralt grits out. “Go to sleep. We have an early morning.” Without waiting for Jaskier’s response, Geralt throws himself back almost violently and gets to his feet, pacing the campsite, making his way to Roach and burying his hands into her mane. She huffs as if chiding him for daring to disturb her sleep.

  


Behind him, Jaskier sighs softly and begins to roll out his bed for the night.

  


Next time, Geralt tells himself, he will find a way to leave the bard behind. And next time, his mind tells him, Jaskier will still find his way back, pushing his boulder up and watching it fall down only to begin all over again, hoping that this time things may be different.

  


Long after Jaskier has fallen asleep and the sound of his soft snores fills the campsite, Geralt still stares at the embers where the fire has been, thinking of this king Sisyphus, and wondering, among the three of them, which one is the most stubborn, stupid one.

  


**Author's Note:**

> Roach is basically Geralt's emotional support animal, fight me on this. 
> 
> These idiots set my blood on fire with how. thick. they. are. Somebody please send them to couple therapy.


End file.
